


Far Fetched

by ladyblahblah



Category: Original Work
Genre: Changelings, Fae & Fairies, Fauns & Satyrs, Friends With Benefits, I don't know shit about how bands work, Identity Issues, M/M, Multi, Nature Magic, Original Fiction, POV Alternating, Romance, Science Fiction & Fantasy, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-10-02 15:59:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17267102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyblahblah/pseuds/ladyblahblah
Summary: Between his job--a landscaper for a nursery and landscaping company--and his passion--the band that he and his 3 best friends are trying to get off the ground--Adam Porter has plenty to focus on. Still, he can't seem to take his mind off of Gabe Merino, the band's other guitarist and the man that Adam's been dancing around for years. Now that their first tour is over, maybe it's time that he finally made a move. That is, if he can keep fending off the mental breakdown that's had him hallucinating beautiful, impossible sights for the past few months.Gabe is no longer the starry-eyed teenager that first fell for his older cousin's friend, and about ready to make sure that Adam knows it. Of course, that could be the sleep-deprivation talking--some sort of animal has found its way into the attic, and the scratching and skittering has been keeping him up at night.Sean Whiteaker is the bassist, damn it, not the band manager. Still, it's tough to be too grumpy about doing all the scheduling when Jamie Tate is gracing his bed twice a week.Jamie loves two things: sex, and rock and roll.  He's glad things seem to be settling down with Adam--he doesn't want to have to give up the best assignment he's ever had.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Some quick notes before we begin!
> 
> First off: this is a working title, and the closest to a pun I could get. I regret only that I couldn't manage a better one.
> 
> Second: what I'll be posting is a FIRST DRAFT. Obviously I'm gonna be doing my best, but like. Shit's gonna be kinda rough. Please leave comments with your reactions, things that you find confusing, things you really liked, etc.!
> 
> Third: idk guys this is really scary, so. Read it if you want to give it a shot, and please be nice?

Stretching wide over the field packed with people, the sky is turning from summer blue to a rich twilight purple. The air is thick with the mingled scents of fried food and sugar, spilled beer and sweaty bodies, but Adam is standing above all of that, breathing in the fresh breeze ruffling the sweat-dampened hair at his forehead. He’s running on fumes, fueled by gas station junk food and too little sleep. It doesn’t matter.

 

 

He’s onstage. They’re onstage, and the rush of playing has hit all four of them all head-on. They’re happy. Sean and Jamie are grinning at each other as they play, the fight of an hour ago all but forgotten. Gabe is smiling widest of all, though his head is ducked down so far towards his guitar you’d never see it if you didn’t know to look. Adam knows, and the sight sends his heart into an odd rhythm, making him grateful that he didn’t look over until they were in between songs.

Pausing for a long pull of water, he glances out over the crowd and feels lighter than he has in ages. Touring hasn’t been easy, maybe. There’s a lot that’s pushing him to his limit right now—the travel, the cramped spaces, the terrible food, his own jagged-edged thoughts—but getting to play almost every day isn’t included. It’s been . . . invigorating, actually, though he knows that he’s the only one who feels that way, the only one whose high from being onstage carries over all the way to the next performance. Performing recharges his batteries. Always has.

It’s still unreal somehow, he thinks as Jamie counts them into their next song and there are a few cheers from the crowd at the opening chords, that people know them. Know their music. This might be a far cry from Coachella, but there are people here because their band is playing. They’re here to see them, and that knowledge sends something electric running through him, sending his voice soaring. Looking at him, no one ever expects the low, rich rumble that spills out when he sings; having heard that, no one ever expects the high notes. Adam loves to watch that surprise roll over people, like waves across a shore, and he wishes there was enough light to see the crowd clearly now. The need for that connection feels like an itch beneath his skin.

Oddly, rather than cementing him in the moment of performance, the energy teasing its way across his nerve endings has his mind wandering even as he sings, as if he’s split himself into two. Half of him is hammering away at his guitar, cupping a loving hand around the microphone as he croons out the chorus. The other half is bouncing wildly from one subject to another, from their next show two days from now, to winter holidays spent endlessly singing along to Disney movies, to wondering if maybe there was something to the idea that there really is a spirit inhabiting everything. Maybe that’s where this charge is coming from—maybe he’s pulling it from the people bouncing and swaying in time to their music, from the music itself, maybe even from the guitar slung around his shoulders. He spares a moment to wonder what, exactly, his guitar would say if it could talk.

Probably tell him to back the fuck off and stop taking his sexual frustrations out on it, he thinks wryly.

There’s a break in the vocals while Gabe tries to smother them all in loud, thrashing chords, and on a whim, Adam imagines a door within himself and throws it open wide, opening himself to the connection he imagines he can feel. He has a funny idea, suddenly, that he’d like to hear how Gabe’s guitar must be complaining about now. It’s a ridiculous idea and it sends a laugh bubbling up in his throat, lighting him up from inside, and then—

Excitement. Lust. Anger. Joy so bright it’s incandescent. Sadness so deep it feels like a crippling, endless night. They fill him all at once, a tidal wave of emotion hitting in less time than it takes his heart to beat. It swamps him, overtakes him, and he reaches for a particular thread of it the way a drowning man reaches for a lifeline. It calls to him, beckoning him to take hold: pure, raw delight in the music, close to what he was already feeling but amplified a hundredfold. He focuses on that, on only that, blocking everything else out.

This is . . . This is good. Very good. He can feel himself getting hard, and it doesn’t seem to matter that he’s onstage at a local music festival in semi-rural West Virginia, visible to God and everyone, he just wants more. Wants in the way that a child or an addict wants, with no thought beyond the immediate gratification of his desire. He imagines that inner door opening wider, the thread of delight twining around him like a ribbon, binding him tighter and tighter until—

The ribbon snaps. In a rush he’s back to himself, alone, and it’s only then that he realizes how fully connected he was a moment ago. The loss of it makes him reel more than the sudden onslaught had; he’s barely able to hold it together for the end of the song. The crowd doesn’t seem to notice, but he thinks they get a clue when he half-stomps, half-stumbles off into the wings. He says there’s a problem with his monitor, some sort of feedback, and everyone believes him because Adam might be an insecure, cocky, insensitive asshole at times, but he’s always been professional about the music.

It takes everything he has to go back out and finish their set, but he does. He feels drained and somehow wired at the same time; the thought flits across his mind that this is how it must feel to be electrocuted. He keeps seeing things—thinking he sees things. Bodies in the crowd, unbearably bright and beautiful, drawn in by the sound of their music like moths to a flame. The entire crowd seems brighter, somehow, in a way that has nothing to do with the harsh artificial lights: filaments of light flicker in and out of view, strung between bodies in motion to form a sort of glowing golden net of people. Impossible shapes peer back at him from atop amps and instrument cases, and Adam feels himself breaking into a cold sweat.

He’s still shaky when their set ends, through packing up their instruments and watching the crowd filter slowly off to their cars as the festival shuts down. Everyone is still riding high on the performance and eager to keep the night rolling, motel checkout and the drive to their next stop on the tour tomorrow morning be damned. Adam doesn’t want to go, but he’s usually the first one to jump at the idea of an afterparty of any kind, loves to talk about a good show afterwards and relive it over and over again. There’s no way he can skip out now without raising everyone’s suspicions that there might be something wrong, and he’s just so fucking sick of something being wrong.

It’s still early enough that the bar closest to their motel is busy when they get there, and it’s the last place in the world he wants to be. There’s too much noise, too many people, and though the effects of whatever happened to him—a stroke? an aneurysm? whatever the fuck makes you hallucinate like you’ve just dropped acid out of absolutely fucking nowhere—are fading, he still catches glimpses every now and then that make him shudder in reaction. He stays for as long as he can, nursing at his drink and then abandoning it when no one’s paying attention, before he claims a headache and walks the block and a half down the street to retreat to the room that he and Gabe are sharing.

Adam doubts that he was really fooling anybody. He saw the looks that Gabe and Sean were exchanging when he left, the way Jamie very carefully wasn’t looking at anything at all. They’ll all be wondering now, waiting, watching him as though he’s something fragile.

At the moment he doesn’t care. He just wants to stop. He wants everything to stop.

That night is bad.

He’s in bed long before Gabe gets in, creeping quietly through the dark, moving with exaggerated caution to keep from waking his sleeping roommate. He didn’t have to bother—sleep is a long time coming for Adam. At first, he thinks the walls are closing in on him, that every time he looks they’re just a little bit closer. But they’re not, and it takes him a while to realize that they’re breathing with him instead. Expanding and contracting, as though he’s trapped inside his own lungs. He wants to turn away, to bury his head beneath a pillow and hide, but he can’t tear his gaze from the movement. He doesn’t trust it, doesn’t want to turn his back on it.

It’s not until nearly half-past four that he’s able to close his heavy, blurry eyes. They’ve gone gritty with exhaustion, and with a solemn promise that he’ll never do drugs again if this will just stop, stop please, he finally falls into a restless sleep.

It’s better when he wakes, though the clock tells him he’s barely gotten two hours of sleep. The walls aren’t moving anymore; there are no shapes or strange lights to be seen; and everything seems quietly, blissfully normal. As normal as things can get, anyway, in this liminal space of early morning in the dozenth cheap, generic motel room in less than a month. Adam sits up, stretches, and that’s when he realizes that things aren’t so normal after all.

The pillow is covered with thick, grayish purple smears where his head had been laying. Adam shoots a nervous, wide-eyed glance at the other bed, making sure that Gabe is still asleep, and reaches for the pillowcase with a trembling hand. Stiff fabric meets his fingertips. Some sort of dye, he thinks distantly, dried into a solid stain on the scratchy white cotton. A sudden suspicion registers and his fist grips the pillow tight as he scrambles out of bed, moving as fast as he dares, trying to stay quiet despite the sharp staccato pounding of his heart. He eases the bathroom door shut behind him before fumbling for the light switch with his free hand, frantic and clumsy.

When it stutters on, the overhead fluorescent light is bright and unforgiving, and there’s no denying what he sees in the mirror.

His hair is as stiff as the pillowcase, caked with dried dye that flakes off when he touches it. Some of it has liquified again in the sweat beading at his temples, running down his face in dirty purple trails. Afraid of what he’ll see but unable to keep from looking, he turns his head. The hair on that side has been rubbed clean, and the color beneath—the pale straw-yellow where the hair’s been bleached and the first hint of dark brown at the roots—peeks through a hole in the dusty purple mess.

That explains the pillow, he thinks, barely biting back a hysterical giggle.

Except it doesn’t explain it, not at all, because hair dye doesn’t just . . . just leak out. Especially not a solid three weeks after you’d dyed it, surely. What he’s seeing is impossible. It can’t happen.

The clean patch of hair on his head stares silently back at him.

Adam climbs into the shower and stares down at his feet, watching in detached fascination as the water runs down the drain in faded purple swirls. By the time he climbs out there’s no trace of it left, not in his hair or on his body, and he’s starting to shake with delayed reaction.

Ridiculously, his first thought looking in the mirror is that he can’t go out like this, can’t let people see him like this. His hair was eggplant-purple last night, and now it’s not, and hair just doesn’t fucking do that.

Except that his has.

He barely recognizes the man in his reflection. It’s more than just the hair, sticking up from his scalp in towel-dried spikes. There’s something in his eyes, he thinks, that’s never been there before, though fuck if he knows what it is. Instinct, maybe. Knowledge.

He really wishes that his eyes would clue the rest of him in.

Adam’s hand is closing around Gabe’s beard trimmer before he really knows what he’s doing, flicking it on and attacking the soft strands above his ear first. It takes a while—his hair is still damp, and the razor wasn’t really designed for this type of work—but he manages to trim it down to a careful fraction of an inch, just enough to leave the bit that’s grown out since the last time he bleached his hair. There. Problem solved.

It’s a lie—he knows that even as he thinks it. Nothing is solved, not really, but for now, it’s enough to be able to push it all into the back of his head, to sweep the tiny bits of hair into the trash and cover them with balled-up tissues. It’s enough to pretend that the story he’s rehearsing now is true. Enough to hope and pray and believe that it won’t happen again.


	2. Prologue

Adam’s new house is barely more than a fifteen-minute drive from Gabe’s place, tucked back against the trees at the edge of town. It’s small—of course, Gabe thinks, so is Adam—but trim and tidy from the pre-sale renovations, and they all know Adam was more concerned with location than with size anyway. The bustle of the resort and the main bulk of the city are out of sight and out of mind, the neighbors are quiet and keep to themselves, and the forest looms behind the house like it might just swallow it up at any moment. Adam likes to joke about that, about letting the forest absorb him and living the rest of his life as some sort of quest-dispensing hermit.  
  
At least, Gabe thinks that’s a joke. They’re usually playing Zelda or something when Adam mentions the idea, but still, Gabe’s never been entirely sure.  
  
It seems eminently possible, he thinks as he climbs out of his car, squinting into the bright late-afternoon sunlight. He’s lost his sunglasses again. Adam might have an extra pair that he can borrow; that said, he’s unlikely to let him borrow any given his abysmal track record with the things. Maybe he can just steal a pair when Adam’s not looking.  
  
Gabe rounds the car and reaches in through the open window, pulling out the small terra-cotta pot that’s been riding shotgun with him. With it tucked under one arm he stands still for a moment, staring at the trees again. There’s nothing particularly remarkable about them—this whole city is surrounded by forest, and it’s hard to look upon it as the intimidating primeval wonder that it is when you see it as the backdrop for liquor stores and fast food joints. Still, every now and then, when the light hits just right, it seems as though the forest as a whole is some sort of living entity. As if it’s looming there, waiting. Watching.  
  
“Gabe!” He startles, nearly drops the pot he’s carrying. Adam is standing by the side of the house, holding a glass of water and grinning at Gabe as if he hadn’t just nearly sparked a heart attack. “I thought I heard a car pull up.” He nods over his shoulder. “C’mon back.”  
  
Gabe follows through the open gate and closes it behind. The high wooden privacy fence was the first thing Adam had added when he moved in; Gabe has never understood why, as isolated as the house already is. Still, he has to admit it looks good now, covered with some sort of deep green vine with flowers that are just beginning to bud, the perfect enclosure for Adam’s own personal Eden.  
  
A winding, stone-lined path leads him into the back garden, through dozens of plants that Gabe doesn’t recognize and is sure that Adam knows all by name. This place is his pride and joy—he’d worried about it constantly when they were on tour, despite knowing that Edgar was keeping a close eye on it for him. Edgar might have thirty years of experience and a landscaping company that Adam himself works for, but it could’ve been Demeter herself and it wouldn’t have been enough to put his mind at ease. Gabe wouldn’t be at all surprised if Adam has actually been sleeping out here since they got home.  
  
“Thirsty?” Adam stretches, and Gabe has to bite back his first response. “All I have right now is water, sorry. Been trying to stay hydrated.”  
  
“Water’s great, thanks.”  
  
Adam slips inside, and Gabe takes the opportunity to look around. It looks like Adam’s been busy, and some of the tension that Gabe’s been carrying for the past several months eases a bit at the thought. He hasn’t been here since they’ve been back in town, and he thinks he can see some signs of fresh planting, a few bits here and there that he doesn’t recognize. Part of the space has been converted into what looks like an herb and vegetable garden, and a big orange cat is lounging in its midst, watching him through half-closed eyes as its tail lashes lazily back and forth.  
  
“Can’t seem to keep that stray out.” Gabe turns at the sound of Adam’s voice and sees him watching the cat as well. “It does a decent job keeping the furry sort of pests out though, so I can’t really complain. Here—all the other glasses are dirty, sorry.” He holds out a mug emblazoned with the Dollywood logo. “My mom left this here when she and Dad came to help me move. There’s a chip in the rim there, but at least it’s clean.”  
  
The water inside is clear and cool when Gabe drinks; he’s emptied half the mug by the time he stops. “It’s great. Thanks.”  
  
“No problem.” Adam drops into one of the wicker chairs he’d picked up at a garage sale right after moving in and peers at the plant that Gabe deposited on the table. “What’s this?”  
  
“I think it’s dying.”  
  
“It’s a philodendron.” Adam’s voice is faint with disbelief, and Gabe takes one of the remaining chairs. “How the hell are you managing to kill one of these? They’re practically indestructible.”  
  
“I don’t know what’s wrong with it.” Gabe sips at his water, trying to keep his shoulders from hunching defensively around his ears. He doesn’t know why he didn’t move the plant into one of the common areas when Adam moved out—Gabe’s never been any good with plants, but maybe Jamie or Sean could’ve kept it alive. “It was fine when we got home, but a couple of days it started looking like . . .” He gestures at it. “This.”  
  
“You’re overwatering it,” Adam says, fingering a sad yellow leaf. “You need to keep the soil moist, but don’t drown the poor thing.” He shakes his head, and Gabe sinks an inch farther down in his chair. “I’ll make you a watering schedule. Some fertilizer wouldn’t hurt either. Bone meal’s good—I can give you some to start with if you want.”  
  
Gabe wrinkles his nose, but decides not to ask what the hell bone meal is or why he’d want to give it to his plants. “Do I get to take my plant home with me?” he asks instead.  
  
“This time,” Adam says, visibly biting back a smile. “Make sure you don’t leave it outside today, though—it’s gonna rain soon.”  
  
“Uh.” Gabe tilts his head back to peer up at the clear, bright blue sky, and laughs. “Does it usually rain without clouds?”  
  
“Did you know clouds can move?” Adam tosses back, but there’s no heat in it. “I figure we’ve got another hour, hour and a half at the outside before it hits.” He shoots Gabe an odd look. “Can’t you feel it?”  
  
“All I feel’s the sun,” Gabe shrugs. “It’s really nice out here, you know. The place looks amazing. Is that new?” he adds, pointing to a spread of grayish green foliage in the midst of what looks like freshly-turned earth.  
  
“Yeah,” Adam grins, scratching at his nose. It looks a little pink, Gabe notices. Not surprising: Adam hardly ever remembers to wear sunscreen. “That’s Veronica.”  
  
Gabe blinks. “You named it?” he asks hesitantly, and Adam’s head falls back as he laughs.  
  
“That’s the type of plant, dude. Like roses, or goldenrod. They’re Veronica. We just got them in at the nursery—I saw them when I was picking out a new pot for the ficus.”  
  
Gabe glances over Adam’s shoulder, following his nod, and frowns. “That one there? It looks familiar.”  
  
Adam picks up his water again. “Does it?” he asks innocently.  
  
“It’s not new, is it? Did you move it recently?”  
  
“Hmm. Sort of.”  
  
“‘Sort of’? How can it be ‘sort of’ . . . wait.” His eyes narrow. “That broken-off branch looks . . . that’s Uncle Gene’s ficus, isn’t it?”  
  
“No,” Adam says defensively, but Gabe can see a small smile hiding behind his water glass. “Well. Not anymore.”  
  
“You stole his ficus?”  
  
“I liberated it. I’ve told him a thousand times to make sure it gets plenty of sun, and what did I see when I went over there with Sean last week? The poor thing tucked away in some dark little corner, nearly half its leaves gone.”  
  
“I swear, man, our rent not better go up because of this,” Gabe warns, though he’s probably undermining himself a bit by barely being able to fight down the urge to laugh.  
  
“I’m goin’ back for his spider plants next,” is all Adam says in response. “The man can’t be trusted.”  
  
Gabe finally does laugh at that. “And he’s so good with people, too,” he wheezes.  
  
“I know!” Adam grins broadly. “It boggles the mind. But level with me here, Gabriel,” he adds, drawing out his full name in a way Gabe really, truly wishes he could find as irritating as he does when other people do it. “You didn’t come all the way out here just to make me a witness to your attempted plant-murder. What’s up?”  
  
“Nothing.” The breeze is starting to catch at his curls, teasing them apart and blowing them into his face no matter how many times he pushes them back. “I just . . . you know, I haven’t seen you much since we’ve been back. It’s weird not having you at the house anymore. I dunno, I guess I just wanted to make sure you were doing all right.”  
  
“Yeah, I’m fine. I’m good.” Adam runs a hand over one arm, leaves his hand wrapped around his shoulder. “It’s better here at home. Everything’s just . . . better. So yeah,” he says with a sheepish laugh. “I’m good.”  
  
“You look good,” Gabe says, fighting off a blush when he hears his own words. “I mean, you seem happy. Happier than you were on tour, anyway. And. Well. You look good.”  
  
“Yeah?” He looks up to find Adam grinning obnoxiously at him, and he rolls his eyes.  
  
“You know what I mean, Porter. I’m just saying you look . . . y’know . . .”  
  
“Good,” Adam says significantly, still grinning.  
  
“I like your hair like that,” Gabe admits. He laughs, lifting a hand to rub at his cheek. “It reminds me of been twelve years old and begging you and Sean to let me play Guitar Hero with you.”  
  
“Yeah.” Adam shifts a little in his chair, looking almost embarrassed. Nervous. “I thought I’d just sort of . . . Let it be for a while. Remember what I actually look like.”  
  
“It’s nice,” Gabe says quietly, then forces a casual smile onto his face. “Little bit disappointing, though—the rest of us had a pool going for what color you’d go for next.”  
  
“Of course you did. So what was your guess?”  
  
“Blue.” He raises an eyebrow. “No chance you’d think about dying it now, is there? Just for a week or two?”  
  
Adam laughs again, back at ease. “You always were a little cheater, Gabe. Sorry, looks like you’re just gonna have to cut your losses on this one.”  
  
“I guess so,” Gabe sighs dramatically. “Probably for the best, though, if you’re planning to keep that beard.”  
  
“It’s not a beard,” Adam protests. “Not yet. I just haven’t bothered to shave for a few days.” Gabe raises an eyebrow again, and Adam shrugs. “Okay, maybe more like a week.” He scrubs a hand over his chin. “I should probably get rid of it, huh?”  
  
Gabe tilts his head thoughtfully. “I dunno, I kind of think it looks . . .”  
  
“Good?” Adam teases.  
  
“Yeah,” Gabe says, and looks off across the garden again in defense against whatever reaction he might find on Adam’s face. “Maybe I’ll grow one myself,” he muses, turning back when Adam bursts out laughing. “What? What’s so funny?”  
  
“You can’t grow a beard, Gabe,” Adam protests through laughter that’s edging perilously towards giggles, and Gabe scowls.  
  
“I could, and it wouldn’t take me a full month to do it, either.”  
  
“I just mean . . . you’d look . . .” Adam glances at him and starts to laugh again. “No. You just can’t.”  
  
“Why not?” he demands. Clearly he’s spent too much time with Adam over the years, because what had started as an offhand comment is growing into an urge to follow through just to spite him.  
  
“I’m sorry.” Adam’s still giggling, trying to cover it with the fingers of one hand. “I swear I’m not trying to be an asshole. But really, you shouldn’t.” He sobers slightly, and Gabe’s heart gives a delicate shudder at the look on Adam’s face. “You wouldn’t look like you, is all.”  
  
“Well.” Gabe shivers. “Can’t have that, I guess.” He shivers again, and frowns. “Has it gotten darker out here,” he asks suddenly. “And cooler?”  
  
“That’d be the clouds,” Adam says dryly, his expression back to normal again. “They’ve been rolling in for a while. You really didn’t notice?”  
  
“I was distracted,” Gabe says inattentively. He’s focused on the sky now, his head tilted back to peer up at the thick grey clouds; he’s rewarded with a fat drop of water hitting him smack between the eyes. His head jerks back on reflex and he hears Adam snicker. “You were right about the rain, I guess. Maybe you should think about being a weatherman.”  
  
“Yeah, I think I’ll give up on this whole ‘rock star’ idea. Too much work; weatherman it is.” He sneaks a quick look at the sky himself. “Ought to be a real soaking rain,” he says under his breath. “Good. Save me from having to drag out the hose.” He stands with a stretch. “We’re gonna get drenched if we stay out here. You wanna come inside? We could listen to some records, maybe have a beer or something?”  
  
“That sounds great,” Gabe groans, “but I can’t. It’s my turn to get the groceries, and I’ve been putting it off all week. Sean and Jamie are gonna kill me if we have to eat ramen and peanut butter for dinner tonight. Literally,” he says when Adam laughs. “That’s all we’ve got left at the house—I checked.” He stands up as well, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “You’re welcome to come with me, if you want. I know you hate going to the store by yourself, and there’s no one else to take a turn now that you’re here on your own.”  
  
“I actually just stopped at the store after work yesterday.” More and more drops are falling now, and they hunch their shoulders against them, but neither of them moves yet. “Figured, since I was already out, it’d be easier to just get it done. I oughta be able to cut down on having to go, too, once the veggies I planted start coming in. So . . .”  
  
“Sure. I should probably get going,” Gabe says sheepishly, “before we both drown out here. I’ll see you at the band meeting Wednesday?”  
  
“Right. See you then. Gabe, wait,” Adam calls out as Gabe starts to walk away, and he turns back immediately.  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
Adam’s smirking now, lifting both eyebrows as he nods at the table. “Your plant.”  
  
“Oh.” Gabe can feel his face flushing as he doubles back to bundle the mess of green and yellow leaves into his arms. “Thanks.”  
  
“Don’t forget and leave it in the car when you get home,” Adam cautions. “Take it in with you or it’ll get fried as soon as the sun comes back.”  
  
“I will. Thanks again.”  
  
“Gabe?”  
  
He glances around for anything else he might’ve forgotten before looking back at Adam. “What?”  
  
“You should come back again sometime.” The faint dusting of freckles across Adam’s cheekbones are standing out, the way they do when he blushes. “To just . . . y’know, hang out, like we used to. When you have some more time.”  
  
“That sounds good,” Gabe grins. “I will. Like we used to, huh? We gonna sit around watching YouTube videos while you drink a whole bottle of Tito’s?”  
  
“I think we can probably do a little better than that,” Adam snickers.  “And you can fuck right off, by the way—I only drank a whole bottle once, it was a small bottle, and I learned my lesson after that anyway.”  
  
They simply stand there grinning at each other for another long moment before a fat drop of water lands square on the top of Gabe’s head, startling him into action again. “Right. Well. I’ll give you a call later, then.”  
  
“Alright,” Adam says easily. “Talk to you later, Gabriel.”  
  
“Yeah.” He backs up, letting himself take one last look before he turns to go. “Later.”


	3. Chapter 3

By the time Gabe makes it to the store, the rain has started in earnest. A good soaking rain, his mom would all it, even if the only thing that Gabe’s sure it’s soaking right now is him. Just the short jog from the car through the front doors  leaves him damp and flinging water from his hair, shivering in the overzealous air conditioning. He grabs a cart and, shopping list in hand, sets off purposefully down the first aisle, mentally kicking himself all the way.

What had that been, he wondered, with Adam? Had it been . . . an invitation? That is—it had been, obviously. Adam had invited him. But was it really just to hang out? Had it only been friendship behind the offer? Had he been imagining that look in Adam’s eyes, the message that he’d seen there?

No. It hadn’t just been his imagination. He’d felt it, just like he had a dozen times before: the two of them poised on the brink of something, some terrifying, glorious fall. And just like every other time, one of them had frantically windmilled back from the edge. It had been Gabe’s turn this time, and he’d deliberately misinterpreted Adam’s overture in order to go grocery shopping, of all things.

At least, he thinks morosely, grabbing a box of cereal off the shelf, he was fairly sure he’d misinterpreted it. Hadn’t he? Fuck. He practically throws a jar of peanut butter into the cart. He just doesn’t know. And that’s the problem, isn’t it? It’s always been the problem. He thinks, he feels, but he doesn’t know. And without knowing, he can’t bring himself to jump. The chasm before him is too frightening, because it might lead all the way to paradise but it has an equal—if not a better—chance of leading to nothing but a painful, undignified demise.

Gabe isn’t usually like this. He isn’t, but there’s just something about Adam. Maybe it’s having grown up with him; maybe it’s his musical skill, or his passion for the same; Lord help him if Gabe has any idea what the real root of this feeling is, but there’s no denying it’s powerful. Five minutes in Adam’s company and Gabe feels like a teenager again, awkward and blushing with inappropriate lust for his older cousin’s friend.

He’s not a teenager anymore, though. He’s dated before, both casually and not so casually, and if it were anyone else, he’d have done something already. Made a move. There’s no logical reason he can’t do so now, he thinks, pretending to deliberate between two nearly identical jars of olives. When he calls Adam next, maybe. When he goes over sometime, whenever that is, to hang out, whatever that is. He could say something then. Maybe he can find his courage if it’s just the two of them for once, just . . . hanging out. Talking. Maybe things would just come about naturally, then.

A sudden burst of inspiration has him blinking against the fluorescent lights. Why wait, after all? Sean is dog sitting at his parents’ in [TOWN NAME] tonight, and Jamie is working late at the bar, so Gabe will have the house to himself. He could invite Adam over for dinner. Tonight. Eggplant parmigiana—he knows Adam likes that, and Gabe has made it a couple times before. Maybe a nice wine, even. Red, to go with the meal. He’ll call Adam, get him to agree to come over—it won’t be hard, Gabe’s sure, and even if it is he feels confident in his ability to talk Adam into it—and they can eat and drink and talk and just . . . see.

He heads down the pasta aisle again on the way back to produce, thinking of the whole-wheat noodles Adam mentioned a couple of weeks ago. That’s a good compromise, he figures, between normal pasta and the zucchini noodles he refuses to eat on texture concerns alone.

There’s a flash of movement at the corner of his eye as he passes by the aisle he’d just been in—a familiarly-shaped body, moving quickly. By the time Gabe turns to look he’s too late to catch more than a glimpse of a tennis shoe as it disappears around a corner. Left feeling vaguely unsettled but not quite sure why, he shakes off the feeling as best he can, pen scratching over his list to add things he’ll need for tonight’s meal.

Gabe is browsing through the coffee, trying in vain to remember the roast that Sean always buys—he knew he should’ve taken a picture of the label before he left the house—when he sees it again. Sees them again. Just the barest hint of movement at the edge of his vision, familiar and strange and confusing. He keeps his head bent over the bag of coffee in his hand and, years of experience working in his favor, peeks up ever-so-slightly through his lashes.

There’s no doubt: he’d know that slight, wiry frame anywhere. Gabe grins to himself despite his confusion, wondering what sort of game Adam’s playing now. And it is a game, he’s sure of that. Surely if he’d just changed his mind, he’d have come up and said something like a normal person instead of following Gabe through the store like some sort of stalker. Not that Gabe minds, really; sure, it’s a little weird, but then, so is Adam. Whatever the game is, he thinks, he can play along.

Still peering down, pretending to be absorbed in his list, Gabe starts to move slowly to the next aisle. Instead of taking that turn, however, he zips past and spins his cart around Tokyo Drift-style, and in just a couple of long strides turns back in time to see a small body hastily arranging itself as though taking great interest in the weekly special on saltine crackers.

“I thought you said you didn’t need anything, you freaking stalker. Did you forget—oh, sorry.” Gabe feels his face grow so hot he suspects his blush is visible from space when the man turns around. “I, uh . . . Sorry. I thought you were someone else. Sorry. Again.”

The man is staring at him, and Gabe is staring right back, too surprised to stop even as he realizes how rude he’s still being. The odds of what he’s seeing have to be . . . astronomical. He’s sure Sean could tell him exactly what they are, or at least manage an estimate. All that Gabe can think, though, is that it must be a ridiculously high number against a ridiculously small one that he’d be out shopping for dinner and stumble across a man who could be Adam Porter’s fucking double.

Well. That isn’t entirely true, he thinks, still cataloguing what he’s seeing. The build is the same, and the bone structure. The lips that Gabe has imagined doing graphically sinful things to him entirely too many times to count. He has the same hair—that thick, shiny dark mass that Adam’s has become—though his face is clean-shaven. Still, a couple minutes with a razor could’ve accounted for that. What makes him truly sure that it isn’t Adam standing in front of him is the eyes: instead of a familiar dark brown, this man’s eyes are bright green, shot through with what could almost be flecks of gold. And, most convincing of all, both are fully focused on him, with no sign of Adam’s near-blindness on his left side.

Those two (beautiful) clear eyes blink up at him, and reality comes back to Gabe in a rush.

“Sorry,” he says again, unable to manage anything else,, and the man smiles faintly.

“It’s all right.”

His voice sounds gravelly, as if it hasn’t been used in a while, but Gabe’s sense of vertigo isn’t lessened at all by the fact that it’s the same voice, the same fucking voice that not half an hour ago was berating him for overwatering that stupid plant. Gabe has to focus on those eyes again, those eyes whose shape is so familiar but that remain so very, very different than the ones he knows.

“What?” he manages after a moment, aware that he’s staring again but again, unable to make himself stop. He watches the faint smile on those lips twitch into a well-known smirk, and his knees nearly buckle.

“I said, ‘it’s all right,’” the man repeats. “Just a harmless mistake. No harm done.”

“Yeah.” Gabe feels dazed, even more so when the man reaches out and brushes his fingertips softly across his knuckles, making both of them shiver visibly.

“You should finish your shopping,” that voice says again, and Gabe simply nods, and turns, and stares down at the list in his hand with eyes that don’t seem to want to focus properly.

By the time he reaches the end of the aisle, he’s forgotten all about the man with Adam’s face and Adam’s smile, with Adam’s voice and the wrong color eyes.

He forgets about his plants to invite Adam to dinner, too. Unpacking his bags at home, he spares a brief, fleeting moment to wonder why he’d bought an eggplant, of all things.

And if he’d thought he’d seen a small figure standing in the rain as he drove out of the grocery store parking lot, he dismisses it as nonsense, because people don’t just stand in a downpour watching strange cars drive away for no reason. And because, just for a moment, he’d been sure that as the man turned and walked away he had done so completely dry, and walked between the rain.


	4. Chapter 4

“No. Nope. Absolutely not.”

Adam’s glare has become something of a local legend. Barely five-foot-five though he is, his glare has the power to cow people twice his age or size. It can make a grown man stammer and back away. It’s pure distilled rage and disdain, with just a hint of instability thrown in for good measure. It got him through middle and high school alive, it’s fended off a number of would-be groupies, and it get him his way on setlists with appalling regularity.

In a way, Jamie’s glad to see it again. Over the past several months it’s barely made an appearance—Adam’s been too immersed in whatever was sucking him further down into the emotional pit he’d been buried in to bother mounting a protest about much of anything. Its return now makes it seem like the Adam they’d known before is really and truly on his way back. Still, Jamie can tell that the others are all deeply relieved that he’s on the receiving end of Adam’s ire instead of any of them.

That’s fine by him. Jamie’s always been the only one of them immune to Adam’s fits of furious megalomania. He knows that the others think it’s because he could probably snap Adam in half if he ever really wanted to. That’s fine, too—it’s easier to let them think that, anyway, than to try to explain the truth.

“You’re being unreasonable,” Adam snaps.

“Okay,” Jamie says agreeably, rolling his shoulders in a lazy shrug because he figures it will just make Adam more annoyed if he keeps his cool.

He’s right.

“Okay? Okay?” Adam throws his hands in the air with a look of disgust. “That’s it? You’re totally fine with being an irrational, unreasonable pain in the ass?”

“No. But I’m fine with you thinking that I am. Subtle difference.”

“If you’d just listen—”

“Oh man, that’s hilarious coming from you,” Jamie laughs. “Since when have you been willing to compromise your own ideas long enough to even listen to a sample?”

Adam glares again. “That’s not the same.”

“Isn’t it?” Sean jumps in, setting his drink down. “When was the last time you didn’t shoot down one of Jamie’s suggestions? Or Gabe’s?”

“Leave me out of this,” Gabe mutters.

“Just because I don’t want us to end up sounding like an 80s hair band or a Mumford and Sons ripoff—“

“And I don’t want us sounding like we’re gonna start opening for Enya,” Jamie shoots back. “Sounds like the the exact same argument to me.”

“But you like pipes,” Adam protests, sounding more baffled than irritated now. “You’ve got like ten different sets up in your room. You’ve got a freaking didgeridoo.”

“I’ve got a bunch of autographed football jerseys, too, but that doesn’t mean I think we should all start wearing them on stage.”

“You play though, don’t you?” Adam leans forward, that old familiar spark of fixation in his eyes. “I’ve never actually heard you, I know you play. All I’m asking is that you at least try out some of the stuff I’ve come up with. Who knows, you might actually like it.”

“Look, sure, I’ll take a look at what you’ve been working on, see how it sounds, give you some feedback.” He shakes his head at the excitement on Adam’s face. “But we’re not adding it to any of our songs. I don’t play in front of other people—you know that, too.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Said the pot to the kettle,” Jamie snorts. “You have weirder hangups than that, don’t try to pretend I’m the weird one here.”

“But Jamie—”

“Okay. Okay, I’ll tell you what: I’ll go ahead and give you this one. We can work some woodwinds into one of our next songs.” Adam lights up, obviously about to start crowing in victory, when Jamie smiles beatifically. “As long as I get to use some heavier synth pedals and Gabe gets to stage-test his bluegrass sound, too.”

Adam’s triumphant face turns thunderous in less than a second, and Gabe’s hopeful expression fades into a look of, well, it was a nice try at least.

“No. No fucking way.”

“Then no pipes from me,” Jamie says with an easy shrug, leaning back in his chair. “Fair’s fair, right? Either we all get to try out something new, or none of us do.”

Adam sets his jaw, and for a tense, breathless moment all three of them are braced for a classic Adam Porter shitfit. To Jamie’s surprise, however, his mutinous expression fades away after just a few seconds, and he simply sighs out a weary, “Fine. I guess you’re right—that’s fair.”

“Holy shit,” Sean says with exaggerated astonishment. “Adam Porter conceding a point? Fuck the new songs, there’s no point: the world’s obviously coming to an end.”

“Come on, Sean,” Gabe admonishes, though he can’t quite conceal his own smile. “He’s never gonna be reasonable again if you keep giving him shit for it.”

“What else am I supposed to do for fun around here?”

“How about we move on,” Jamie suggests with his own faint grin, “before Adam decides he’d rather have a solo career and we all end up buried in his garden?”

“I talked with Caroline up at Whistling Mountain Lodge,” Sean says immediately, flipping to a page in his notebook marked with a bright red plastic flag. “They’ve got a start-of-autumn event coming up in a couple months and he’s looking for bands to play a few different nights. We’ve gone over there well before so he’s willing to let us have our pick if we get back to him by the end of the week.”

“Email them to me?” Jamie asks. “I can probably work around whatever date works best for the two of you with nine-to-fives.”

“Why don’t you just write them down now?” Sean asks wearily.

“You know I’ll just lose whatever I write them on. I don’t know how you deal with that pen-and-paper mess.”

“By not leaving my shit wherever I put it down when I lose interest.” Sean rolls his eyes. “I’d also like to reiterate my request that we get an actual band manager so I don’t have to keep doing all the boring shit just because I know how to use a calendar.”

“Can we actually afford to hire someone right now?” Gabe asks, and Sean’s shoulders droop.

“I mean. No one good.”

“I’m not dealing with another situation like the one with Kevin,” Adam says, slouching back into the couch, arms crossed over his chest. “I still have nightmares about that fucking fundraiser.”

“I don’t know,” Gabe says with a smirk. “I think watching you start the set by telling a roomful of rich Republicans that you’re ‘queer as a three-dollar bill’ might’ve been worth the price of admission.”

Adam snickers at that, and for a moment the four of them simply sit and grin at each other, caught up in an easy camaraderie that’s been missing for far too long. And if Jamie notices that Adam and Gabe smile at each other for a beat or two longer than they do at anyone else, he simply files the information away without comment.

It’s not like it’s anything new, anyway.

The moment is broken by the heavy sound of work boots on the stairs, and they all look over to see Gene, uncle to Sean and Gabe and landlord to the three of them still living in this house, clomping his way into the living room.

“Sorry to interrupt, boys,” he says, wiping at his thick-fingered hands with a bandana he then tucks back into his back pocket. “Gabe, I checked around up there; there’s no sign of any sort of permanent habitation, but there’s a pretty good hole in the roof I got a tarp over for now. Looks like we probably oughta call in an exterminator after all.”

“Exterminator?” Adam twists around, arm draped over the back of the couch, to frown up at him. “What’s going on that you need an exterminator?”

“Gabe told us the other day he’s got bats in the attic,” Sean laughs.

“It’s your attic, too, so I wouldn’t laugh too much. And it’s not bats,” Gabe says with a shudder. “I don’t think. I keep hearing something skittering at night, though, and it sounds like something on four legs.”

“Probably squirrels,” Gabe says. “Could be raccoons, but those suckers ain’t subtle, so I figure you’d know by now if that’s what’d busted in.”

“Gene,” Adam protests, and the older man holds up a hand to forestall him.

“I know what you’re goin’ to say, but I promise you, it’s all humane. If they think there’s something’ living up there, they’ve got the catch-and-release sort of traps, and then we’ll get some folks out here to figure out how they’re gettin’ in so we can get it patched up.”

“As long as we can get them out soon,” Gabe puts in. “If I have to spend too many more nights listening to those things running around above my head I’m gonna go nuts.”

“Well you know if it gets too bad you can always come stay with me and your Aunt Celia for the duration,” Gene tells him, clapping a hand on his shoulder, and Jamie seems to be the only one to notice Adam’s mouth snapping closed before he can give voice whatever he’d been about to say.

“Thanks Uncle Gene, I’ll let you know.” Gabe leans forward, palms braced against his thighs. “Did we have anything else? We’ve got a couple of days to check our schedules and decide which day we’d want to play, right?”

“Yeah, y’all can get back to me later,” Sean sighs, and jots down a note. “If you don’t, though, just be advised I’ll be choosing on my own, and everybody else will just have to deal.”

“Fair enough,” Gabe says with a grin. “I’ve gotta get going if I want to make Sarah’s going-away party before everybody’s completely trashed.”

“Are you sure you don’t want a ride there?”

“I’m crashing on Sarah and Mike’s sofa. Don’t worry.” Gabe stands. “You know I’m the last person to get behind the wheel if I’ve been drinking.”

“I’ll walk you out,” Adam says, and hops to his feet as well. “I need to head out, too, if I want to get the garden watered before it gets dark.”

“Adam, while I’ve got you here.” Gene steps forward. “I wanted to talk to you about the matter of some missing spider plants.”

“Missing?” Adam shrugs, his eyes as wide and innocent as he can make them. “Strange. Can’t help you,” he grins, almost skipping out the front door as Gene goes chasing irritably after him.

“Oh, hey,” Jamie says, stretching his legs out more comfortably and leaning back in his chair when Sean sets his notebook aside to start gathering everyone’s abandoned half-full glasses. “I can help clean up.”

“You can,” Sean says with a raised eyebrow, his gaze sliding pointedly down Jamie’s outstretched body. “But what you will do is hang around and chatter while I clean up.”

“Keeping company is helping. See ya tomorrow, Gabe.”

“That went better than expected,” Sean comments when the front door closes behind his cousin.

“It did,” Jamie agrees. A small twinge of conscience assails him and he stands with a stretch, gathering the glasses closest to him. “Even if it almost ended with a beatdown.”

Sean is already running hot water into the sink, and turns to shoot Jamie a significant look over his glasses. “And whose fault was that?”

“Adam’s,” Jamie says immediately, and grins. “He’s a big boy—he’ll get over it.”

“I hope so.” There was silence for a few moments apart from the sound of running water. “How, uh . . . how do you think he’s doing lately?”

“Better.” Jamie lifts a hand to scratch at his jaw, idly watching bubbles fill the sink. “He doesn’t seem as low as he did while we were on the road. Might still have a ways to go, but I think he’ll be all right.” He catches the look on Sean’s face, and it’s his turn for a significant look. “You don’t think so?”

Sean lifts a shoulder. “He’s definitely more—more present, I guess, than he was on tour,” he says hesitantly. “But he still seems . . . I don’t know. Off, somehow. Every now and then I catch him staring into space, but not in an absentminded kind of way. More like cats do sometimes, you know? Like he’s looking at something that isn’t there. Not to mention, before you got here he was talking to my fern like he thought it was going to answer back.”

“Yeah, well. He’s always done that, hasn’t he?”

“He’s doing it more,” Sean says, and there’s no doubt or hesitation in his voice now. “You don’t think he’s on something, do you?”

Jamie snorts. “Adam? Mr. All-Natural, Organic, No-Processed-Substance-Shall-Pass-Between-My-Lips? No, I don’t think he’s on anything.” He sees Sean smile despite himself and lays a hand on his shoulder. He likes the way Sean shivers slightly under his touch. “You’re worried because of Gabe, right?”

“You know how he is,” Sean says, transferring soapy dishes to the empty side of the divided sink for rinsing. “He’s always thought Adam hung the moon and stars. I thought that would fade as he got older, when he wasn’t a teenager anymore, but it’s only gotten worse.”

Jamie rubs lightly at the muscles that join Sean’s neck and shoulder and feels his friend relax slightly.

“Gabe’s a big boy too, Sean. He can take care of himself.”

“I know. But he’s practically more like my baby brother than my cousin, and I can’t help . . .” He shivers as Jamie leans in and begins to kiss at the side of his neck. Sean’s chin tilts, seemingly of its own volition, and goosebumps bloom under Jamie’s lips. “I can’t help worrying,” he finishes, voice gone a little breathless.

“Sean.” Jamie’s arms wrap themselves around the smaller man, pulling him closer. Feather-soft kisses turn firmer, with a hint of teeth at the center. He likes the way that Sean’s body gives a pleasant little jerk with every nip. “I think we’ve reached the ‘no more talking’ portion of the night.”

Sean turns in his arms with a smile. “You want me to be quiet?”

“I didn’t say that,” Jamie leers, and pulls Sean in for a kiss.

Sean’s lips part easily, eagerly under his, a responsiveness that has the carefully-banked fire inside of Jamie leaping in immediate answer. Sean’s hands are wet and soapy when they bury themselves in Jamie’s hair; his tongue is flavored with sugared tea and the sharp tang of lemon and his heady Sean flavor, and Jamie has to have more, more, more, more.

“Thirty seconds,” he manages to rasp at last, breathing heavily against Sean’s lips.

“Hmm? What?” Sean is moving his hips against Jamie’s in small, intriguing circles. Jamie is already hard, the need that’s been building over the past several days more difficult to hold back with each passing moment.

“You complained the last time I fucked you over the kitchen table,” he says, reluctantly loosening his grip, “so get your ass upstairs.”

“That was just because there were still dishes on it from the—”

“Twenty seconds now, and then it’s gonna be wherever the hell I end up catching you.”

Sean gives an enormous, wicked smile, and bolts from the room. Jamie lasts almost ten entire seconds before following him.

Sean had, frankly, been a fool to trust him.

Much later, when the neighborhood was quiet and still with the press of night, and Sean lay sprawled boneless and smiling faintly in his sleep beside him, Jamie throws off the covers and eases out of bed. With Gabe gone for the night he doesn’t bother with clothes, simply beds barefoot and naked out of the room and downstairs to the kitchen. He ought to go sleep in his own bed, he thinks, the way he usually does. On the other hand, though, Gabe is guaranteed to be gone until mid-morning at the latest, and Jamie always sleeps better when there’s another warm body in the bed.

He takes a glass from where they’d left them in the sink and fills it, keeping the faucet on low in deference to the old, noisy pipes and his friend sleeping upstairs.

He’s got a good thing going on here, Jamie reflects as he gazes out the small window above the sink, scanning his eyes over the dark of their small backyard. Things could be better, of course—they always could be. But he likes the life he’s built, the thrill of what the four of them are creating together. There’s the sex, too, something that had always been necessary that’s now . . . fun. Something that he enjoys every bit as much for the delight of play as for the pure physicality.

Jamie sips at his water, wandering into the living room. A good thing, definitely. And one he isn’t giving up if he can possibly help it.

The large fern hanging in the front window blocks most of the view from the street even with the window open. It’s the one that Sean claimed to have seen Adam talking to earlier, which Jamie admittedly doesn’t find all that surprising—Sean may have been the one to buy it, but it’s Adam’s favorite of all the dozens of houseplants here. He’d have stolen without remorse if he hadn’t reluctantly concluded that it was too big for the limited space in his tiny new house. Jamie had been the one to suggest that they give him a cutting as part of a housewarming gift, an idea that Sean had declared to be brilliant in its simplicity.

He strokes a finger over the delicate leaves. Adiantum pedatum. Maidenhair fern. Sean always has favored the poetic.

Jamie breaks off a small frond and drops it into his water glass. It swirls gently, resting on the water’s surface. Then he steps to the side, into the small patch of moonlight shining through the windowpane.

The leaf begins to move more quickly, pulled by an invisible, impossible current. Faster, faster, until it’s just a blur of motion on the water turned silver by the moon’s glow, and Jamie feels the force of it trying to tug the glass from his hand. He holds it steady with the ease of long practice as the force grows greater and greater and—

Stops. The leaf sinks like lead to the glass’s heavy bottom, and gazing down Jamie sees past it, and through it, to a room reflected in the surface of the water that isn’t the room in which he stands. The perspective is a high one, just above where Jamie’s head would be if he were standing in the spot, where Adam’s cutting from the fern hangs beside his own bedroom window.

Adam is sprawled on his back in the center of the bed, one arm flung up towards the headboard and the other resting lightly on his stomach. His breathing is deep and easy, his face relaxed. Luminescent forms flit around the room, perching for moments on the darkened lamp, the nightstand, the end of the bed. One sits easily on Adam’s chest, a tiny hand brushing curiously over lips soft and open in sleep.

Jamie stretches his senses out further. There’s nothing else in the room. Just Adam and his Watchers and the plant that was letting Jamie see through its eyes. Satisfied, Jamie steps out of the moonlight. Just like that, the glass in his hand is filled with simple water again, and he reaches in to fish out the leaf now floating on the surface. He tosses it into the pot, and with a quiet word of thanks empties the rest of the water onto the soil as well. The glass gets a quick wash and goes back into the sink, and Jamie makes his way back upstairs.

In his sleep, Sean stirs, turning towards the returning warmth of Jamie’s body, and Jamie lets himself fall into an easy, dreamless sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

Sean is contemplating.

It’s one of his favorite things to do: simply sitting and thinking about something he’d heard, or read, or done. To turn the subject over in his mind, examine it from all angles. It’s what, along with the inherently flexible schedule, makes the freelance technical writing he does such a perfect fit, no matter how boring most people always assume it must be. It’s an excuse to think about things from as many different angles as he can to make the finished product as close to foolproof as possible.

This sort of thinking is better, of course, with someone else so that he can do his thinking out loud. He’s always worked better with someone else to bounce ideas off of, as the display of rubber ducks on his desk would attest to if they were capable of talking back. Maybe he shouldn’t give Adam so much shit about talking to the houseplants after all.

Much as he prefers a sounding board, however, there’s no one he can really share the current subject of his thoughts with, and it would feel too strange saying them out loud to that row of bright cartoonish eyes and smiling rubber beaks. In any case, it’s a gorgeous morning, not too hot yet in the shade of the front porch, and he’s enjoying the chance to sit with a mug of tea and simply be alone with his thoughts.

Right now, those thoughts are centered on Jamie. Jamie, and the really phenomenal sex they had last night. Sean lets a small smile tug at his mouth, remembering the delicious feeling of hands and lips tracing over every inch of his body. Sean’s never been with someone quite like Jamie before, never been the focus of such intense, unyielding attention. Given his way, Jamie will spend hours touching, tasting, testing, until Sean is little more than a trembling mass of nerves. And Jamie himself is so responsive, so eager and willing to try anything and everything that Sean might propose.

Of course, he muses as he sips at his tea, whatever they have in bed probably doesn’t exactly translate into what anyone would call a relationship. There’s friendship, obviously—a deep, lasting one that’s somehow grown to form the bedrock of Sean’s world. And there’s sex. The best sex Sean’s ever had, maybe, but still just sex in the end. He doesn’t delude himself that it’s anything more than that.

At least, he knows it isn’t for Jamie.

Which is, in a nutshell, why his mind keeps returning to these thoughts. Does he want it to be more, whatever it is that they have between them? If he does, how long is he willing to wait? Does he want to try to push for more at the risk of losing what they already have?

As of now, he has a roommate who mostly cleans up after himself, and a good friend to talk to, share a beer with, and twice a week like clockwork, share his bed. That’s enough, he thinks. Enough for now. He might want more . . . but that can wait, he thinks. He’s not in any rush, and Jamie doesn’t seem to be showing any signs of getting bored with him yet, especially if last night is any indication. No, Sean thinks with a satisfied smile, he’s pretty happy with things as they are.

For now.

Gabe’s car pulls into the driveway, and Sean fishes out his phone to check the time. Ten to ten. He shakes his head as Gabe climbs out of the driver’s seat, squinting into the sunlight and clutching an absurdly large to-go coffee cup in one hand.

“Lose your sunglasses again?” Sean calls just to watch Gabe visibly wince. “Looks like you had quite a night.”

“Sarah is the devil,” Gabe groans, clomping his way up the steps to drop into the other lawn chair, hunched protectively around his cup. “Or a witch. An evil devil-witch who always manages to talk me into doing shots, and I’m not going to miss her even if I live to see another day at work.”

Sean hums, taking another sip of his tea as Gabe takes a long drink of coffee strong enough that Sean can smell it from where he’s sitting. “I don’t think we have anything appropriately greasy that we could make here—how about we go get something to eat at Mama’s?”

“Sean. I want you to know.” Gabe flings a hand out to clamp clumsily around Sean’s forearm. “You are a truly great person.”

“Yeah, I’m the shit,” Sean laughs. “You wanna get changed first, or . . .”

“Fuck it, they’re not gonna judge me at Mama’s. Let’s just go.”

“Hey.” Sean leans forward, peering into Gabe’s face. “You’re okay, right? I mean, hungover, obviously, but. You sure you’re up for going out somewhere?”

“Yeah. Honestly, the hangover’s not even all that bad.” Gabe runs a hand over his face, which only draws Sean’s attention to the bags that have joined the dark circles that have been shadowing his eyes for the past few days. “I just didn’t get much sleep last night. Again. I called Uncle Gene before I left Sarah and Mike’s; he’s gonna see if he can get someone out here today to check the attic. I’m kinda hoping that if I stay out for a while I’ll come back and everything will be fixed.”

“I’m sure you won’t have to deal with this much longer.” Sean puts his mug down on the railing, only to immediately pick it up again, desperate to have something to do with his hands. “The professionals will have a look around, and—”

“Sean, Uncle Gene was up there for half an hour yesterday. I was so sure he’d find something, but . . . no droppings, no nests, no signs of food or—or anything? What if the exterminators come out and still don’t find anything? We’ll never convince them to come back, and I’m just gonna keep hearing something moving up there and I’m gonna lose my entire fucking mind.”

“Maybe it’s a ghost.”

“Sean,” Gabe groans.

“Look, you’re sleep-deprived and working yourself up.” Sean stretches out a leg to nudge at Gabe’s foot with his own. “You sure you don’t just want to go in and try to get some rest? You can sleep . . .” He pauses, thinking of the mess of his bed, the sheets he hasn’t changed yet. “You, ah, you could lie down on the couch. Nice and far away from your room.”

Gabe laughs and glances ruefully at the cup in his hand. “I’m actually too wired to sleep now. And now that you’ve put the idea in my head, I’d kill for some of the biscuits and gravy at Mama’s.”

“If you’re sure . . .”

“I am.” Gabe runs a hand over his face. “I mean it though, Sean. I think I might be losing my mind.”

“You’ll feel better once you can get some good sleep,” Sean says firmly, but though Gabe nods in agreement, he doesn’t exactly look convinced.

“It’s, uh. It’s not just whatever’s throwing nightly ragers up in the attic. I feel . . .” His shoulders slump under the weight of Sean’s stare. “I have this feeling all the time,” he says hesitantly, “like . . . like someone’s watching me. Like I can feel their eyes on me.” He shudders. “It’s fucking creepy, Sean.”

Sean’s frown deepens. Gabe rarely ever swears, and the fact that he has now is what, more than anything, convinces Sean that his cousin is being dead serious. “A stalker?” A ball of ice forms in his stomach at the thought. They’ve had their fair share of overly-enthusiastic fans—well, Jamie has, mostly—but nothing too troubling or, God forbid, dangerous. “Have you seen anyone? Or . . . I don’t know, noticed any strange cars, or—I don’t fucking know how stalkers operate.”

“Not exactly,” Gabe hedges.

“Gabriel.” Gabe rolls his eyes, but Sean doesn’t miss the way his spine straightens up at hearing his full name in that tone. “I can’t help you if you won’t talk to me,” he says, forcing his voice to soften. “What do you mean, not exactly?”

“It’s . . .” Gabe expels a heavy breath. “I’m going to sound completely ridiculous. You’ll probably want to have me committed.”

“Well that won’t be anything new since I found you trying to wire your school cello to my amp.”

“Unfair,” Gabe protests. “I was only ten!”

“A sign of things to come,” Sean says in an exaggeratedly ominous tone, trying hard to hide his relief when he sees Gabe’s shoulders relax slightly. “C’mon, if you’re still a free man at this point you don’t have anything left to fear.”

“I . . .” Gabe swallows, his eyes darting down to his feet. “It’s animals. They’re the ones watching me.”

Sean sits impassive for a moment, but finally he can’t hold back his grin any longer. “Well, at least you still have your sense of humor, and it’s just as awful as it’s always been. Now come on, what’s really—”

“Look, I know how it sounds.” Gabe’s eyes, wide and bright and a little wild around the edges, lift to stare at him. “But I swear, it’s the truth. I think it’s the truth.” He scrubs his hands over his face again with a muffled, “All right.” His eyes fix seriously on Sean again. “You know Mrs. Callaway’s dog?”

“Ugh. Yes.” Sean can’t help but make a face. “The overgrown rat that barks too much.”

“Barks all the time,” Gabe corrects him, and Sean nods in acknowledgment. “Well, I was out getting the mail yesterday and Mrs. Callaway comes walking by with it, and anything that moved got a full yapping assault. And I mean anything. Birds, squirrels, bugs, blades of grass, you name it. And then it got to me, and it just . . . stopped. Went dead silent, Sean, and it was just looking at me. Mrs. Callaway tried to pull it along and it almost tripped over its own feet because it was still staring at me over its shoulder.”

“All right,” Sean says slowly. “That’s . . . kind of creepy, yeah.”

“That’s not all. Two days ago, there were the birds,” he says. “Roosting in the trees in the yard. Not just a few, either—it looked like a whole flock. And I mean, a flock of birds maybe wouldn’t be that strange,” he admits, shoving a hand distractedly through his hair, “if they were even all the same kind of bird. It was a bunch of different ones, though, and it felt like they were watching me, too. I know, I know this sounds completely nuts, but I swear it’s real. Like I’m living in my own honest-to-God Hitchcock movie.”

“Gabe.” Sean hesitates, wanting to choose his words carefully. “Are you sure—it’s just, you haven’t been sleeping well lately. Are you sure you’re not just . . . imagining some of this? It’s not that I don’t believe you,” he adds quickly. “But maybe you can’t pinpoint the source of this feeling that you’re being watched, and so your anxiety is manifesting itself by making you see things watching you everywhere.”

Gabe slumps down farther in his seat. “You’re probably right,” he mutters. “Yeah, I’m probably just . . .” He sighs. “I could use a decent night’s sleep,” he says with a shadow of a grin.

“You know you could go stay with Uncle Gene and Aunt Celia,” Sean reminds him. “Or hey, if you want, we can switch rooms for a while, see if that helps.”

Gabe hesitates, and for a moment Sean thinks that he might agree, but in the end he only smiles and shakes his head. “Thanks, Sean, but Uncle Gene’s got the exterminators coming out as soon as possible, and he’s gonna get the roof patched later this week. It’ll be fine; I can hold out until then.”

Sean frowns, but he knows better than to argue. “Well. If you change your mind . . .”

“I’ll let you know. Now let’s go already, I’m starving. And, um . . . Sean?” Gabe’s fingers play absently around the edge of his cup’s plastic lid. “You’re probably right, it’s probably just in my head, but . . . well, when we’re out, will you sort of—maybe keep an eye out? You know, for anything strange, or . . . just to see? So I know if I should go find a good therapist after all.”

“Sure, Gabe. Of course I will.” Sean tries a smile. “My eyes’ll be peeled for the animal paparazzi.”

To his profound relief, Gabe laughs. “I appreciate it. Now hurry up, or I’m gonna start eating this cup.”

“Brat,” Sean says fondly, but stands to take his mug inside. He’ll worry a little bit more, he knows, but that’s just his nature. In the end, he’s sure Gabe will be fine, no matter what the nagging feeling in his gut has got to say.


	6. Chapter 6

Adam wakes with a start, fingers clenched in the sheets as he struggles for breath. His shirt is soaked in sweat, clinging to his skin, and he can’t tell if he’s shivering from chills or from the dream he just clawed his way out of.  
  
The dream. The memory of it was already fading, but adrenaline was still speeding its way through his body, reluctant to release its hold on him. There had been green, he remembered hazily. So much green, the color so vivid it has almost hurt his eyes to look at it. And out of that sea of color had come something hard and sharp and painful, and a cloud of . . . of things, all bright colors and delicate wings and tiny, inquisitive hands—  
  
He pushes himself hastily out of bed, letting the last dregs of the dream settle and sink back down below the level of his consciousness and trying to ignore that it gets harder to do so every time. There’s a part of him—a mad, reckless part that he does his best to ignore—that wants to hold tight, to remember . . . whatever it is that he keeps forgetting. That’s ridiculous, though, a thought born and bred out of stress and sleep deprivation.  
  
They’re just dreams, after all. Random firings of synapses in the brain, Sean would say. They always fade away within an hour or two, leaving nothing behind but a vague sense of unease. And that, too, fades with time.  
  
The sky outside his window is starting to pale with the first hint of dawn, and Adam doesn’t even bother looking at the time as he strips out of his boxers and sweat-soaked t-shirt on the way. No point in going back to bed now—either he won’t be able to fall back asleep or he’ll end up sleeping until dinnertime, and he’s still doing his best to pull himself out of unhealthy patterns.  
  
He needs to do laundry today anyway, he remembers, giving his shirt a grimacing sniff before dropping it into the hamper. Might as well get that started. He can hang things to dry on the line he set up out in the garden. He’s developed an appreciation for that lately, a distinct preference for the scent of real fresh air over chemicals that claim to recreate the smell. There was far too little fresh air in his life while they were touring, the four of them crammed into a secondhand van and crappy motel rooms that probably hadn’t had a full cleaning since they were built. It makes him twitchy again just thinking about it, imagining he can smell the metallic tinge of all that machine-processed and filtered air.  
  
He’d been telling the truth earlier, though, when Gabe had asked: things are better here at home. Home. The word, the idea, had felt like a balm by the end of the tour. It still does now.  
  
Adam flips on the light in the bathroom—his bathroom, in his house, a thought that still makes him giddy even if it still seems absurd to think of himself as a homeowner—and turns on the sink, already relaxing at the sound of running water. Maybe he’ll see about putting in a little stream out back, he thinks idly, loading toothpaste onto his brush. Line it with some river rocks and a few water-loving plants, maybe add a little footbridge to string with pretty lights. He can picture it clearly, hear the murmur of running water and see the soft glow of fairy lights during a warm summer twilight. Idyllic. Almost . . . romantic.  
  
Thoughts brush at the edges of his mind like fluttering wings: soft lips parting beneath his, thick hair between his fingers, strong shoulders and hands with long, clever fingers. He smiles to himself as he brushes his teeth. It would be a romantic setting, he thinks, perfect for setting things in motion. Things of a romantic nature. Things that have been far too long in coming,  
  
He’s still smiling when he leans down to rinse the foam from his mouth. Maybe he’ll call Gabe later, he thinks, his heart beating just a touch faster. See if maybe he wants to come over tonight, have a beer or some wine or . . .  
  
Adam catches a flicker of movement in the mirror and whirls around, his heart thundering again as he plasters himself against the sink and scans the small room with frantic eyes, alert for any trace of movement, any twitch. There’s nothing. Of course there’s nothing; he hadn’t really expected there to be anything. Just a tired brain and a trick of the light. Randomly firing synapses. Do synapses randomly fire when you were awake? Are they supposed to, anyway?  
  
He almost laughs at himself, turning back to the mirror, and if it’s a vaguely hysterical sound that wants to bubble up from his throat, he feels like that’s probably understandable given the circumstances. Maybe he’ll try going back to bed after all, once he’s washed off this drying sweat. He’ll just be sure to set multiple alarms, see if he can’t get a couple hours’ more sleep.  
  
Then he catches sight of his reflection, and all thoughts of either sleep or laughter evaporate in a sudden rush.  
  
Adam jumps back, his startled yell reverberating off of the tiles. He resists the pick up the closest thing to hand and chuck it at the mirror, but it’s a close call. And only managed, he realizes shakily, because of the sudden mad thought that whatever he chose might just go through, and his mind is already fucked enough as it is.  
  
Nonsense. Ridiculous, irrational nonsense. Get a grip, Porter, he thinks firmly, and tentatively, cautiously, leans forward again.  
  
Eyes a familiar shade of brown stare back at him. Open wider than normal, unmistakably terrified eyes, but also undeniably his. Brown eyes. He has brown eyes. His eyes are brown, not green.  
  
Except that he’s almost sure—he tries to ignore the voice in his head whispering that there’s no almost about it—that they had been. For just a split second, they had been the color of new leaves and soft moss and that fucking dream, but that was impossible because his eyes are fucking brown, damn it.  
  
His legs feel suddenly weak, and he lowers himself unsteadily to the cold tile floor. Hands lift to his face, shielding it, hiding it, as though he can make everything go away if he just doesn’t look. How much longer can he stand it, this quiet way he seems to be losing his mind? It’s already getting harder and harder to tell what’s real and what isn’t.  
  
He hates this. It scares the living shit out of him and he hates it. Hates that even now he can’t stop his mind from reliving that night on tour, the night that had started everything. The night that he’d begun to fall apart.  
  
The memory sweeps over him, pulling him down like an undertow. He struggles, but only for a moment. It’s like drowning: it doesn’t hurt as much if you don’t fight it. If you just give in.  
  
He can smell the fried food and sugar and cigarette smoke in the air, feel the thrum of energy from the crowd. It feels like a dream, now, though it had felt like one even then. That surge of adrenaline, sending him flying and then crashing back down to earth, leaving him shaking and untethered. He remembers having the frantic thought at the time that someone might’ve slipped him something—acid, or GHB, maybe—and that as long as he could ride it out, everything would be fine. He’d be careful, he’d be watchful, and it wouldn’t ever have to happen again.  
  
Except it had. Nothing nearly as strong as that first time, thankfully, but there were moments. Glimpses of movement, snatches of sound, half-imagined somethings in the air. Still, he hasn’t had an episode since they’ve been back home, and Adam had very nearly convinced himself that it had only been the stress of the tour getting to him after all, nerves and exhaustion picking apart the workings of his mind.  
  
It hadn’t been. Something is genuinely, seriously wrong with him.  
  
Ironically, his fear at this new certainty seems to cancel out his fear of whatever he thinks he might’ve seen in his reflection, and it gets him moving again as he realizes that he’s curled up naked on his bathroom floor in the pre-dawn quiet, like the worst sort of cliche he can imagine. It takes a moment to straighten out his legs, gone stiff with tension and his cramped, uncomfortable position, but eventually he manages to force himself to his feet.  
  
He doesn’t want to tell anyone about this, just like he hadn’t when they were on the road. Jamie would joke his way through the tension, Sean would insist he see a doctor, and Gabe . . . Gabe would just give him that look again. That vulnerable, terrified look that Adam had seen more than once when he was particularly deep in his own bullshit, the one that would be so much worse if Adam actually admitted that something was wrong.  
  
No. No, he can get through this on his own. He’s sure he can. Meditation and self-reflection are what he needs, not some overpaid, overeducated douchebag poking around in his head and asking him how he feels about his mother.  
  
His garden, Adam knows immediately. He needs his garden, needs to be surrounded by growing things, by life that he’s tended and guided and guarded. He’ll be able to breathe there. He doesn’t bother with a shower—doesn’t even bother with clothes. They’ll just be a hindrance. His nearest neighbors won’t be up yet, and anyway, the fence is high enough to block out any prying eyes.  
  
Yes. His garden is what he needs. He’ll be sheltered there. Safe. Sane.  
  
He goes.


End file.
